Winter's Breath
by tigerfeet
Summary: Shyla Cassel is the only daughter of the captain of Ned Stark's guard. Raised around proud men and in the life of the guard, all she wants is to be able to join and serve her people. Will she regret it when she gets her chance to? OC fic, future paring
1. Prologue

**(A/N: I always preface my fics by stating that I'm a chronic fic starter. It's the truth, I am…I have no idea where these plot bunnies come from but right when I'm smack dab in trying to keep up with so many others, and keep up with life in general for that matter, I get inspired to crack into a whole new fic. **

**I'm basing this entirely on the show and not the books because I'll admit I've only read the first two and I read the second so long ago that I need to go back and re read before I start the third because I can't even remember where the second book leaves off. So, if your into book cannon and are going to be a stickler and a stick in the mud about it, this is not the fic for you. **

**Also, I love writing OC's and this is an OC centric fic. Though they can border on being sueish, I try to at least make them well written and enjoyable if not realistic. But again, they're not everyone's cup of tea and that's fine. Quite frankly though, if you don't jive with OC's you don't really need to be an asshole about it in my opinion (seriously have seen some RUDE ass reviews in other fics across many categories that were just uncalled for an immature.) But if you want to go ahead and flame you're more than welcome too…just know it's a waste of your time and energy :D**

**Fair warning though, there will be an OC pairing in future though, haven't QUITE decided and have several avenues that I could explore but am really indecisive at this point…to be honest I'm more or less in love with The Hound so that's probably the way it will end up, but I dunno..we'll see. If you don't like that then just don't read!**

**I own nothing other than my host of OC's…though I wish I did :(**

**I love, LOVE reviews, and they keep me really motivated. Also open to critique provided it's polite and not just an outright flame if you don't like something.**

**Enough talk, let's get on with it.)**

_**Prologue: **_

Winter was coming, that much was certain.

For weeks, it seemed as though the lone thing every soul in Winterfell was concerned about. No one could say without doubt when it would arrive of course, but that didn't stop the constant conversations and the continued precautionary measures increasing in intensity and haste by the day. As long as it was in question just when the seasons would shift, the entire city would continue to be a buzz with worry bred by rampant rumors and half-truths. Which is not to say that either were without just cause. The winters that had befallen the land up until that point had been kind (if one could call it that) and brief for decades up until that point. There had been few deaths, and fewer that could be directly linked to the coming of winter. No famine, and nothing to turn man against man in the harshest of times during which they were meant to pull together. The cold was still cold and bitter as ever, but apparently nothing that could hold a candle to a "real" winter.

A real winter was something there were few now left alive to speak freely about and impart facts instead of silly superstitions and fears. The sort of thing that had passed through everyone's mind and still lingered on their lips as they scuttled about their business and tried to push the matter to the depths of their thoughts.

A real winter was something that for Westeros was long over due. After near a decade of summer, the speculation was the people would now have to face an unpredictably harsh winter to be of the same length if not even longer. More importantly, according to some, the coming winter would be the winter to bring the White Walkers with it and a night to blanket the land to aid in their attack. A first strike in over eight thousand years, and a speculated attack of which no one would even dare predict the outcome. And even then it was only little more than half certain to pass and that was speaking strictly if the walkers existed beyond the realm of lore passed down for generations.

Winter was coming, that was for certain.

What held anything but certainty, however, were the things to come in the weeks prior. A series of events, the impact of which few would go unaffected by. No one expected a chain of happenings that would bring about conspiracy, war, shattered alliances and those newly built. Treason and madness would resonate through near all of the seven kingdoms and change the shape of things to come.

No one would have predicted Jon Arryn's death would have been the linchpin come loose that would set in motion plans devised and deliberated long since prior. Everything was fair game in the battle for a seat atop the Iron Throne, not matter what the cost. Just who would overcome and take power of the Seven Kingdoms was anybody's guess.

Winter was coming, and with it, if nothing else, came immeasurable uncertainty.


	2. Chapter One: Winter's Coming Pt One

_**Chapter One: Winter is Coming Pt. One**_

Day had only just broken and already Winterfell was alive with activity as it's denizens bustled throughout and set about their busy day. The clang of the blacksmith's hammer droned out a dull beat as it struck against steel as vendors set up their carts and small storefronts in order to peddle their wares. Butchers strung up whole hogs freshly killed and ready for carving and a small assortment of stragglers too refuge by an handful of low burning fires; warmth to take in a quick meal by before getting to their respective tasks.

The large stone wall that parted the village from the castle itself was but a shield to the eye and just as on one side, within it's compound was a flurry of activity. Among the most notable on that particular morning was a lone young lady maneuvering rather quickly and a little breathlessly through the lower corridors as she hurried out towards the courtyard. At that precise moment, Shyla Cassel was bordering on being excruciatingly late.

Footsteps pounding out against the stone floor, she wrangled a heavy cloak over her shoulders and struggled to fasten it as she wheeled wildly around each corner. Narrowly avoiding one catastrophic collision with one round backed old kitchen made, Shyla slid on her heel and roughly rapped shoulders with another sending both of them clattering to the ground.

With clenched teeth, she seethed momentarily in the pain that coursed through her as bone met the cool, hard flow beneath her. Only for a moment, however, and Shyla was up like a shot to offer her hand to the fallen servant.

"Beg pardon...sorry…so terribly sorry." She brushed a little dirt off the kitchen maids robes and then her own leggings. "Please, excuse me…"

Muttered amends never did much in the way of quieting the other wised unduly outraged gasps and stunned expressions of anyone about, but at that point in her life it was little more than common place for Shyla. In her seventeen years she had come quite accustomed to sticking out like a sore thumb and being labeled as everything a young lady was not and should never be; not according to those in the proverbial know anyhow. She was far too out going for her own good, rough around the edges and altogether lacked the poise and grace any aspiring lady her age should possess. Being raised around boys, however, she failed to see what more anyone could expect of her to be quite honest. Well-mannered boys of course, the Stark children were nothing if not true to their breeding and upbringing, but boys nonetheless. Shyla had few female friends to model herself after, and fewer still whom she actually wanted to. Truth be told, she wouldn't have it any other way.

With a renewed sense of urgency and one last surge of effort, she flew through a pair of heavy oaken doors and past two posted guards into the courtyard just in time to see young Bran Stark in full course of his archery practice. Caught off guard by the racket of the doors and by the blur of motion that was Shyla as she darted through the courtyard, he snapped his bow string back and loosed his arrow several feet away from it's intended target and directly into an empty wooden cask.

"Shyla!" Bran exclaimed in frustration, stabbing the butt of his bow into the ground roughly. "You distracted me!"

"Sorry…sorry Bran." Still shuffle stepping towards the gates; she cupped her hands together in a gestured request for forgiveness. "Know that it was not my intention in the slightest…have another go on my account and it shall be a good one."

"Stay and watch me then."

"Beg pardon?" Shyla spun on her heel slightly.

"Stay and watch if you're so certain it will be." He repeated, a lilt of hope in his voice she dare not dash.

Torn, Shlya sighed and cast a quick glance over her shoulder to wards the castle gates. "Alright." She nodded and re-crossed the span of the yard towards the boy and his elder brothers. There was little point in not lingering a little longer, she was already going to be torn to shreds for such a level of tardiness; a little more could do no harm. "One arrow…your best attempt and I'll be on my way."

Bran nodded, a quaint smile creeping across his face as he plucked another arrow from the ground and set it in his bow.

"You're late." Rob snarked, leaning into her and giving her a gentle nudge with his shoulder.

"Yes, so it would appear." Shyla nudged him back.

"Very late."

"Thank you for such keen observations my friend." She folded her arms across her willowy frame and rested back against a wooden pillar. "Where ever would I be without you to remind me of the obvious?"

"What's this, three times this week?"

"Only the second." Shyla furrowed her brow and gnawed at her lower lip anxiously. "But it may as well be thrice now…. ugh, what a bloody mess I've made."

"Not to worry." Robb clapped her solidly on the shoulder and offered a bemused smile. "It's only your hide your father will have when he discovers you no where in the ranks to be found."

"Not if I run away first." She chortled. "If I were to leave now, how far south do you figure I could make it before he catches up with me?"

"Not very." Jon chimed, a dry smile painted across his face.

"So encouraging Jon…what excellent friends I have to support and comfort me in times of need."

"It's not like you," Robb plucked another arrow free from the pile, the third since Shyla joined their company, and handed it to Bran. "This being late business."

"Ill sleep makes it difficult to rise." Shyla sighed. "A scarce few hours last night and little more the night before. I'm so tired by all rights I should not be upright."

"Not by your fault alone then." Jon assured her.

"Excuses none the less."

The twang of Bran's bowstring interrupted the conversation as yet again the poor boy loosed his arrow an almost comical distance from the target, this time narrowly avoiding a cluster of chickens scratching at some stray feed.

Shyla clucked her tongue sympathetically and fought back a little giggle. It was clearly frustrating for him to be smack dab in the center of everyone's attention and fall so miserably short of actually achieving success. Quite certainly, poor Bran would have much rather be doing anything else at that point, even if it meant being tucked inside with Sansa and Arya practicing needle point under the tutelage of a stuffy old Septa.

Unfortunately for Bran's sake, training in all forms of combat and weaponry was expected of him, as it had been for all of the Stark boys. It was the family way, and the family way of most ennobled houses in Westeros. Boys were expected to be strong, respectable, and perhaps even fearsome men who were capable of defending their lands with little abandon while at the same time ruling over their people in a fair and just manner. If nothing else, it would make them good husbands just the same as it was expected needle point, polite discourse, and learning all things about being a lady was expected to help the girls become exceptional wives. It was an imbalance to say the least, but it was the way things were. There was little exception to the rule, and it wasn't as though things were about to change at any point in the foreseeable future.

"Try again, Bran." She encouraged him with a sympathetic smile. "Once more and you'll have it, I'm certain."

Bran nodded stoically and gathered his focus. With an exaggerated grunt of effort, he flexed his fingers against the grip and hauled back on the string. All eyes fixed on him, he narrowed his vision and did his best to draw in line with the target and set it in his sights. Another sharp twang and his arrow sailed through the air directly into the trees beyond the cobbled wall. A sharp rustle of leaves, a flutter and a faint cry of a song sparrow and not one of his closest observers could still themselves from laughing.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Eddard Stark's voice cut through the bout of hysterics and quieting the mood slightly. "Keep practicing Bran, go on."

Still discouraged, the boy gave his father a curt nod and steeled his resolve to muster something impressive, even if it was the last thing he did. A few more words of suggestion from his brothers and he was fixed on his task once again. Near holding his breath, Bran locked his eyes on the small square of fabric in the middle of he wicker target. Staring straight down the line of his arrow, he crossed all fingers and toes for luck and said a silent prayer to all of the Old Gods for the chance to hit his mark.

A muted twang and with a triumphant thwack, a connection was made between arrow and target. Square and true, in the middle of the black it stood like a beacon of glory. The one fault was that the arrow itself did not come from Bran's bow at all.

Turning swiftly in shock, all four cast a glance behind just in time to catch witness to Arya, bow still in hand, grinning ear to ear as she bowed lowly in presentation.

"Arya Stark!" Catelyn stifled a good round of laughter of her own as she called out from above. "What in the name of all the Gods do you think you are doing child?"

"Practicing!" She called back with another gleeful smile, nothing if not proud as anything with herself.

"Practicing indeed." Her mother scoffed and rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Shyla gets to do boy things!"

"Ah yes," Shyla cleared her throat. "Good to pose the argument that will never win your battle for you."

"Well, you do."

"And perhaps if you were born of House Cassel and not Stark you too would be permitted." Lady Stark flicked her eyes towards the elder girl with a good-natured smirk. "Permissive as he is, Jory has spoiled that girl through and though at any rate."

"Quite, my Lady Stark." Shyla heaved a sigh and flashed a cheeky smile of her own.

"_Too_ permissive is more like it." Jory gruffed just to the side of the impromptu gathering. "And spoiled is not the word for it."

Shyla winced at her father's words and stiffened slightly.

"Tell me something Arya," She cleared her throat. "Can you can run?

"Of course I can run."

"But can you run _quickly_?"

"Quicker than most." Arya turned up her chin with another surge of self-confidence.

"Away to it then."

Shlya flicked Arya a quick wink and as off on cue, Bran made a lunge for his sister and sent her flying across the courtyard well in the lead of him and in fits of laughter as he scrambled over a low railing.

Another bout of entertainment and a brief distraction from the matter still to be dealt with as was evident by Jory's continued presence; a presence which coincidently had quite easily sent Robb and Jon on their way with little more than fleeting wordless sentiments of sympathy. Shyla was to be left to her own defenses as far as they were concerned, and at that precise moment, collecting the incredible amount of stray arrows Bran's archery practice had resulted in was just the busy work the situation called for. No sense in staying within the direct line of fire of the fallout that may or may not be soon to come after all. Being caught late, and very late at that (as Robb had so graciously pointed out) was one thing. But being caught red handed in her dalliance and making no real attempt to make her way to the ranks was another story all together.

Shyla turned on her heel, only just turning her eyes upwards to her father's. Weathered features drawn and serious, he was clearly in no mood for jokes, games, or anything of the sort, and least of all he would have no excuses in her explanation.

"Where were you to be at just past dawn this morning?"

"Guard's training." Her voice fell only just above a whisper.

"And where are you to be at present?"

"Guard's training."

"So curious it is then, that you are not." He reached forward and fingered a stray strand of hair that had fallen free from its bounds. "You're not even properly ready…and where is your sword?"

Hands flying to the sheath at her hip, she groaned and gave herself a bit of a mental throttling. "In my bedchambers…I was in such a hurry…"

Shyla hung her head slightly and swallowed back the lump of emotion welling in her throat. She hated disappointing her father, more than anything in the world and she would have given anything to not be there before him in such a manner. Guilt would gnaw at her stomach for the rest of the day and what hope at sleeping soundly through the night after the fiasco of the last had now more or less been shattered as well.

She had fought so hard, begged and pleaded for months on end if not for the better part of a year, to be allowed to be able to train and take up ranks with Lord Stark's household guard. It wasn't at all beyond the realm of possibility for everything she had ever wanted in such an endeavor was taken from her by simple word based on her father's discretion.

It was unprecedented after all, a young lady being permitted to take up the sword, but it was the only thing Shyla ever wanted. It was the only thing, she was convinced, would make her father proud of her. Jory had no sons after all, and no other daughters for that matter. The cruelty of fate and of the Gods' will had taken his wife from him in exchange for his only child. With a girl to raise on his own, and the love of his life having been ripped way from him in childbirth, Jory had neither the time nor the heart to marry again; he had no sons and never would. In a family known for the proud men and guards they were, it was no wonder Shyla was left feeling slightly in adequate in the fact that she was born a girl, her father would have none to whom he could pass his torch.

Having no mother and only her father to please had always given Shyla the need to make her father proud in the only manner she felt he could relate to. If he took that from her now, there would be nothing left to make her feel as though she belonged or that she was truly wanted, and needed; no matter how many times other wise Jory had tried to convince her it wasn't the case.

"You gave your word." He continued, dark eyes burning holes clean through his daughter. "Shyla, you promised me…you promised me if I allowed you to take up your training you would take it with the seriousness it deserves…. with the seriousness it warrants…this is no game…"

"I know." Remorse wrought upon her face, Shyla mustered the strength to find conviction in her words. "I do treat my training with nothing but seriousness, you know I do father. I'd do nothing to sully its importance and the esteem of the guard itself."

"Every morning…at dawn…without fail." Jory reminded her of the requirement and the commitment needed of those who wished to join the guard.

"Every morning…"

"Yet you've failed today."

"I have." Her heart sank a little more.

"And before this morning you've failed to take your place a morning prior did you not?"

"Yes." Shyla nodded. "Apologies father, please accept mine and understand when I tell you that it was not by design."

"No, I should hope not." Jory conceded, betrayed by a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I wouldn't expect you to find greater importance in watching a boy fire half a dozen arrows past the wall."

"I overslept." She explained sheepishly. "An excuse below anyone worth their word but in that there is truth. It felt as I'd only just shut my eyes when dawn's light spilled through my window. I swear I had intentions on only spending a few moments more under my bedcovers but I suppose I was more tired than I realized."

"And the cause of this restless night?"

"Dreams."

"Dreams?" Jory cast his daughter a sideways glance. "Of what nature?"

"Of ill nature, clearly." Shyla chucked. "Ill dreams followed by no dreams makes it difficult to find a solid sleep."

"Ill dreams of what exactly?" He pressed her for a little more information, a note of concern clear as day in his tone of voice if not written in his eyes.

"I've no recollection."

"Any thing other than the dreams?"

Shyla shook her head and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose as an poorly timed bout of frustration and impatience took hold. "A slight ache in the head but it's nothing…first light bothered my eyes a little but I'm feeling very much better now that I've eaten and had a little more rest. I can take the rest of training and be all the better for it tomorrow."

Jory's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in his daughter's words. There was more to what she was telling him than just bad dreams and a headache on account of sleep deprivation, that much he could next to guarantee. Whether or not Shyla would give in and tell him was the question, however and all odds pointed to the fact that she would much rather put herself at risk and muscle through whatever was bothering her than let him down any further. Or rather, _feel_ like she was letting him down any further. As far as Jory was concerned there wasn't a thing in the world she could do that would bring such an end result but trying to instill that realization in Shyla was as good as leading a horse to water.

At the best of times it was hard to tell her no, or to disallow her from whatever it is she wanted to do. Shlya was his biggest weakness and would forever have him wrapped around her finger, a virtual puppet of which she could pull the strings with veritable ease. She was the spitting image of her mother, and that never did him any good in the way of finding resolve either. Hair dark as night and stark in contrast to her elegantly fair pallor, pale green eyes perpetually wide with excitement and full of life, and delicately angled features paired with a smile that would stop any man in his right mind dead in his tracks. His daughter's sweet face would forever be Jory's undoing. The one thing that could crush his well honed resolve in the bat of an eye and damned if Shyla didn't use that to her advantage at every chance she got.

That being said, Shyla was unquestionably Jory's entire world. In even letting her train at all he perpetually felt as though he was doing her a disservice and putting her in harms way. He would do everything in his power to protect her and if on account her ire just so happened to be sparked it would be his storm to weather for the sake of what was in her own best interest.

"Back inside with you." He ordered her, short and abruptly as possible in attempt to avoid prolonged discussion on the matter. "I want you resting for the day."

"For what reason?" Shyla's lower jaw jut out in a slight pout.

"Your father needs no reason."

"I wish to take training. I _can_ take training, I'm alright…it's nothing."

"Shall I keep you inside tomorrow as well?" Jory countered a threat to detour his daughter's obstinance. "Or perhaps a full week kept from the ranks would be a more fitting punishment?"

"I'll take rest." She relented, albeit begrudgingly as ever.

"To your chambers and into bed." He added, full well knowing that sending her to rest was vastly open to interpretation and would likely result in anything but. "I'll have a meal sent."

"If it pleases you."

"It does." Jory rapped his knuckle against her jawbone lightly, admittedly amused by her ever present stubborn streak. "Away with you now…go child."

Still somewhat disheartened, Shyla gave a parting nod and slowly turned back towards the lower doors. Making her way back inside, it wasn't until she had crossed several feet before her that a curious thought passed through her mind and she turned back towards her father.

"Why is it you are not with the ranks at present father?" She questioned him. "Why did you not send someone to find me in your stead?"

"Word of a deserter from the wall." Jory called back grimly. "There are matters to be dealt with…nothing for you to be concerned with."

"Would you tell me if it were?"

"Trust me when I tell you daughter, you would be the first to know."


End file.
